


Memoirs of an Angsty 19th Century Gentleman

by the soul (orphan_account)



Series: don’t read this [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21036158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/the%20soul
Summary: Originally written for a school assignment, but scrapped: historical depression POV Gerard





	Memoirs of an Angsty 19th Century Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> once again, sorry

The meaning of life is a frivolous question that one must entertain if he is naturally skeptical, or rather, if he is not drugged by the governing spiritual bodies in his region of the world. As we all know the legends and the morals that makeup our cultures, I’m enlightened and intrigued by them; Astounded and too, bereaved of these fantastical figures of who I associate much importance, great love and fear alike. This opposition of what I wish to be, and the truth at the foundation of my weak heart are forever battling. So do I wish to be part of the congregation, so do I wish to achieve advancement to eternal peace, but I am at odds with the idea that these even exist at all. I am not lost, nor am I willing to convince myself of something I cannot accept as real truth. 

I lay in the dark and I wait for something to happen. There is a lump in my throat, my eyes are sore but not from adjusting to the lack of light. I feel as though I will be stuck here forever, never knowing when I might escape, never knowing if my efforts are feeble or whether I may see day again. The clothing I wear has been the same for the duration of my stay, and the bedding I occupy has been soiled with use and time as it would. I don’t remember the last time I left to relieve myself, or when last I ate or when I will again. These are the only luxuries I’m afforded but even still they appear as chores. Any movement on my part is a laborious effort. Yet in all of this, I am not trapped.

Beneath the fear of nothing, there lies the certainty, and between them is the rejection of change. I sit uncomfortably somewhere there, closer to which end I am unsure, as it changes and shifts in volume all the time. In all of it, I no longer fear death. In fact, I welcome it. The weight of worlds sits upon my chest and nurses me to sleep during all hours of the day and night. I no longer receive calls, invites. I am only this, petering on the edge of forever like a fool, doing nothing to help myself.

I am pathetic, and sometimes when the thoughts have worked a formidable web around my mind like a fog, I laugh. I cackle, a great guffaw so that all the house and the neighbourhood may hear it. Listen to my anguish, but hear my truth. Why do others not feel it? Not understand? I am the fool, but then so are they. As we all are, moving forward to an abyss with depths we cannot begin to comprehend, and happily waving goodbye as we jump to our doom. Or myself, still, just as willing to sink, but with the awareness to accompany it. I am tragic and yet all-knowing in a way that almost all others are not. 

The feeling is a sea of which my bed floats upon, swishing this way and bobbing that, rocking over a treacherous and endless ocean without navigation. I am suspended in the midst and too, far away on a journey of the mind wishing and wondering of alternative futures where I am not myself. I wish to do something, to take action, to change this coffin bed into a great ship with purpose and mission. The ebb and flow of conscious, motivating thoughts is ever stifled by this shell called a body. Useless rings of muscle held together by tendon, taught with unuse, stretching sometimes, sinew screaming to move me, move me, move me. I cannot, or I will not, I mustn’t. Not until I have my answer, not until I am satisfied with knowing exactly what I would do once the day comes. 

I think I would waste away here. It is what appears to be the most viable option to solve the problem. Here in this bed, lay to rest me and my worries, my selfish deed as how will my mother fair? To what extent is it my right to dictate the termination of my life? I could arrange a facade. A letter about how I am off away on a visit to one of school friend’s summer homes, a request that housestaff leave my rooms alone. I wager six weeks to kill me off permanently, the parasite I am. A pain to wash up after me in the end, to be sure, but worth the satisfaction of no longer suffering. The precipice invites me, eagerly, and I sit at the edge, teasingly. Goad me, fully. Strike me down. Please, oh please.

Mrs Davies, my nursemaid from childhood turned housekeeper knocks at my door. It is night, as she carries a candle with her, her steps quiet as she approaches. She forces me, my arm slung over her shoulders, and we walk through the housestaff halls to a bathroom where a footmen tends to me. In the morning, I would join my family in the breakfast parlour. But for now, I will sit in the fresh bedclothes and wonder what is wrong with me. 


End file.
